The soft chime of the shop bell was the only sound that broke the stillness of Amara's small but carefully organized studio that morning. She had arrived early, well before the usual rhythm of the street began, craving the quiet. There was something comforting about the silence—the way it wrapped around her, steady and warm.
She had barely set down her bag when a courier arrived, crisp in uniform, carrying a slim folder.
"Delivery from Mr. Xavier," he announced, handing her the file with a polite nod.
Amara's heart skipped a little—not because of Xavier, she told herself, but because it meant the next stage of the Dravin project was here.
"Thank you," she replied, taking the file with steady hands.
The moment the courier left, she slipped off her jacket, tucked her curls behind her ears, and carefully opened the folder.
Inside were the additional preferences for Mrs. Dravin—pages detailing style notes, favored fabrics, her preferred colors, and even a few quirks that most designers might overlook. Amara's eyes scanned the information quickly, absorbing every detail.
Mrs. Dravin liked clean lines. Sophisticated but not loud. She disliked overwhelming patterns and had a fondness for subtle embroidery that told a story.
Amara smiled faintly.
There was so much hidden between the lines of these notes.
This wasn't just about making a beautiful dress.
It was about crafting something that spoke to the woman wearing it.
Without wasting another second, she cleared a large workspace in the center of her shop. Her hands moved quickly but with practiced care—sketching preliminary designs, pulling fabric samples from her shelves, comparing textures under the soft morning light.
The dress would be needed the next day.
That didn't leave much time.
But Amara wasn't the type to panic under pressure.
If anything, she thrived in moments like this—when the world narrowed down to fabric, thread, and vision.
The hum of her sewing machine soon filled the room, rhythmic and grounding. She pinned lace with delicate precision, her brow furrowed in deep concentration. Hours passed, slipping away unnoticed as she worked tirelessly—cutting, stitching, adjusting.
Her phone buzzed with messages from friends and a few unanswered calls from her Melody reminding her to rest, to eat, to breath.
"Knowing fully well how she's always engrossed in work."
She ignored them all.
There was no space in her mind for anything else. Not now.
She stepped back at intervals to study her progress, tilting her head, her fingers tracing invisible lines in the air as she visualized the next adjustments. She would have to hand-sew certain details tonight to achieve the clean finish she wanted.
As the sun began to set outside, painting soft gold against her windows, Amara finally paused to stretch her stiff shoulders. She realized then just how long she had been standing.
The streets outside had quieted. Most of the shops nearby had already closed, and the usual stream of passersby had thinned.
But she stayed.
The thought of stopping now, of leaving the dress unfinished, was unbearable.
She tied her hair up messily but soon let it fall again—it was getting in her way, but for some reason, she didn't want it tightly bound tonight.
Amara moved back to her work, carefully threading the needle, her lips pressed into a thin line of determination.
This dress mattered.
It wasn't just another project.
It was proof—to herself, to Xavier, maybe even to people like Mrs. Dravin—that her work carried weight, that her talent was more than just something small shops like hers could handle.
It was an opportunity to showcase who she was and what she could create.
And somewhere, deep inside, she wanted to make Xavier proud.
Not that she owed him that.
Not that she should even care what he thought.
But still, the thought lingered like the soft glow of a fading candle.
She sewed for hours, losing herself in the motion, barely noticing the passing time. The room dimmed gradually, but she didn't bother switching on the main lights; instead, the soft desk lamp by her sewing table cast a gentle pool of light around her, cocooning her in a world of fabric and golden threads.
The gentle whoosh of the door opening startled her.
She hadn't locked it.
Amara's head snapped up, her heart thudding briefly before she realized who it was.
Xavier.
He stood just inside the doorway, taking in the scene—the nearly finished dress draped across her mannequin, the scattered sketches, the spools of thread, the quiet hum of determination that seemed to linger in the air.
His gaze lingered on her longer than he meant to.
Her hair was down, falling in soft waves that caught the low light. She hadn't noticed him yet, not fully. She was still so focused, her brow drawn in concentration, her fingers delicately stitching.
For a fleeting moment, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
But almost as quickly, it vanished—as if he caught himself feeling something he wasn't ready to explore.
He cleared his throat lightly, and Amara finally looked up, surprised.
"Mr. Xavier," she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're here late."
"I could say the same about you."
"I had to stay," she said simply, her eyes flicking back to the dress. "It needs to be perfect by tomorrow."
"I see you've made good progress."
She nodded, the faintest hint of pride in her posture.
"I wanted to speak to you," he began, stepping further into the room. "There's been a development."
Her attention returned to him fully now, curious.
"Mrs. Dravin will be attending the meeting."
"That's good, right?"
"It is. But it changes a few things. I've decided it would be better if you came with me to present the dress in person."
Her eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. "Me?"
"Yes. It would feel more intentional. More personal. It's one thing to send a design. It's another to have the designer there to explain her vision. It shows respect. It shows we've gone the extra mile."
She hesitated, her fingers brushing the fabric absently. "I'm not sure I'd be the right fit for that kind of meeting…"
"You are," he said firmly, his gaze steady on her. "This is a big opportunity, Amara. Not just for this project—for you."
"You've worked hard. You've stayed here late to get this right. I knew you would be the best choice."
The sincerity in his voice made her chest tighten slightly.
She wanted to say no.
She wanted to find a reason to step back.
But she also knew… he was right.
She looked at the dress, then back at Xavier.
"When is the meeting?"
"Tomorrow Evening."
Amara took a breath, then nodded. "Alright. I'll come."
His lips curved into a small, almost grateful smile. "Good. I'll pick you up."
As he turned to leave, his voice softened just enough for her to hear, "Thank you for staying late."
She watched him go, her heart strangely lighter.
When the door closed behind him, she glanced at the dress again.
It was almost done.
And tomorrow, she would present it herself.